


London

by Qhernadez07



Category: Black Panther (2018), Black Panther (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Inception Fusion, BAMF T'Challa (Marvel), But has good intentions, Erik is..well an asshole, F/F, F/M, Forger Erik, Gen, Gun Violence, Kid Fic, M/M, Mpreg, Point man T'Challa, T'Challa's a bit of a snob, they both have issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-31
Updated: 2019-02-18
Packaged: 2019-06-18 20:09:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15493725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Qhernadez07/pseuds/Qhernadez07
Summary: It starts in London and after that everything goes downhill.





	1. 1. Prologue- First Impressions

**Author's Note:**

> Longtime right? Kismet is going...slow, and I'm trying to push out the last chapter, but it's hard finishing for some reason. Sorry, but you'll have to wait a little longer for that. In the meantime, I've been writing other things to try to get some of the 'flow' back. 
> 
> This one here is a guilty pleasure lol. I like the idea of another multi-chapter story that blends into the world of 'Inception' (one of my favorite verses to read). 
> 
> You know me, I love creating a strong, bad-ass T'Challa, but he's a little snobby shit too. As for Erik, he's very much like himself, maybe more playful. For this one, I didn't want things to be so easy for him. So he's going to have to WORK.
> 
> The first chapter is a prologue and sets-up a bit of history/universe.

Five years ago. London.

T’Challa thinks that first impressions are crucial. He was taught this at an early age from his mother and father--the lesson was diligent in his childhood--and he believes that to be true, with every situation and meeting. Even in his current predicament, T’Challa is happy he chose to dawn his once crisp three-piece suit, with a black silk tie and wing-tipped shoes.

From the ropes that wrap around his body, from chest to legs, he thinks of the cleaning bill. How his regular dry cleaning service will toss the suit as a lost cause; especially if he ends up getting blood on it and in this situation, it’s most likely that will occur.

T’Challa is blind. The only sense that hasn’t been blocked is his hearing. He’s blindfolded, blocking his sight; mouth covered; preventing his speech.

He’s sitting in a chair; its old, and it creaks. The binding tightly wrapped around his body is probably rope, it feels thick and scratchy--at least the part around his wrists.

T’Challa can hear dripping. Pipes, water, but also emptiness. His location can vary multiple places, but he guesses he’s in a warehouse or old abandoned building. There are people, he can hear voices, but they are faint; like a wall is separating him from hearing explicit conversations.

From T'Challa's kimoyo beads he feels a pulse on his wrist; helping him keep track of time by touch. He’s strapped in a chair for probably over an hour, and T’Challa knows it’s all for a show--theatrical with a splash of fucking with the mind.

T’Challa is blessed with genetics, and he looks relatively young. When his eyes are not covered, his sister likes to coo and remind him of how large and brown they are--his look is trusting--with long lashes.

It's a curse and an advantage, in his line of work he gets underestimated quickly. As for now, T’Challa assumes that whoever snagged him does not know who he is, his associates, or what pain they can cause, let alone him.

He is young, about twenty-three, but has a look of eighteen, due to his baby-face and lean body. T’Challa was with a team on a project when he was taken unexpectedly on a quiet street away from the main avenue in Piccadilly Circus. His look screams ‘snitch’ or ‘square,’ possible someone way over his head. That’s why they have him simmering. So he can freak out and spill all secrets they request without a punch.

Again first impressions.

T’Challa hears echoes of laughter before it starts to get closer until it becomes clear that the voices are heading in his direction. A door opens, and the laughter becomes clear and dies down. The bound man hears several footsteps before they stop in front of him. He braces himself.

“Well, take’ it ‘ouff,” comes a thick British accent.

T’Challa expects his blindfold to disappear, but instead, the mouth gag is removed. Interesting.

“ ‘Ello,” says the voice.

T’Challa licks his lips. “Hello.”

“Do you know why ‘yur ‘hea?”

“I haven't the slightest.”

“You an’ your team is ‘causin’ problems to an employer of mine.”

“So this is a warning?”

“It’s an opportunity,” and T’Challa can hear a smile in the man’s voice. “We know you run ‘point’ on the team you’re contracted wit’ now. Up ‘an comin ‘an ol’ tha....”

T’Challa feels a shift on either side of him. He suspects two others are bracketing on his left and right while the man is still talking at his front.

“My employa’ wuld’ like to help you. Make you very rich.”

The 'point' lets the sentence settle. “ Nothing is free,” he counters back.

“Smart lad you are,” the man bellows with another laugh. The others around follow suit, making T’Challa count another three others in the room--plus the two next to him. “He justs wants info on yur’ curren’ project,” he continues. “You ‘r ‘point,’ you would know th’ most.”

It makes sense. However, T’Challa is loyal and not a chump. He lets things settle for a few moments, and the silence drags the longer he doesn’t speak. They seem to get the picture.

“Oh my boy, yur’ makin’ a mistake--”

“If you’re trying to intimidate me, it’s not working.”

That lands a punch to his left jaw, and his head snaps to the right. Then there’s another punch on the right side and an additional pummeling to his torso. T’Challa is out in the open, tied and unable to defend himself.

The punches land hard. They bruise his sides and threaten to crack his bones. One hefty one lands low on his jaw and manages to split his top lip. After several hits in several minutes, they stop, and T’Challa is left sore and breathing heavily.

“ I do think you shuld’ reconsida,’” the man’s voice speaks. He's close to T'Challa's face; a warm breath on his skin. The point sits back and frowns.

“It will be betta’ fo’ you if you cooperate, lad.”

There's a feeling of blood dripping from his lip down to his chin. T'Challa hopes beyond hope that it won’t land anywhere on his suit but has a feeling there are already droplets everywhere.

The cleaners are not going to be happy.

While he ponders, T'Challa's silence triggers another attack. This one is as brutal as the first. The hits come at him in all directions, and it disorients T'Challa due to his impaired sight from the blindfold.

It’s a smart tactic. One that generally would arouse fear in the hostage. It brings doubt and anxiety that could build and fester. The fact that you wouldn't know what’s coming is a weapon that is easily harnessed.

They stop again, and T’Challa breathes in more ragged breaths, he spits out blood somewhere to his left and hopes he hits one of the men. From further away he hears a door open and lone footsteps coming in their direction. The person doesn’t seem like a typical henchman, based on the rustling around him. It seems his beating/interrogation has halted because of the newcomer.

“Well look who et’ is boys,” the British man speaks. There is a fondness in the man's voice as the steps get closer. The others say their ‘hellos’ in random order.

“Yo, thought I’d find ya’ll here,” speaks the newcomer and T’Challa is surprised by the voice. It’s American and...urban, definitely not what he expects from this sort of crowd.

“Ah, you know ho’ it is,” the British man answers back, “Workin’ mostly, wha’ brings you?”

There is silence for a few seconds. “I heard you got a ‘point,’” the new voice says with interest.

“Tha’ we do.”

“Wanted to see for myself…” the stranger continues more to himself as the voice drops. “There’s talk in dream share of his potential to be ‘top dog.’”

The British man laughs. “You jealous?”

He gets a snort. “There ain’t nobody like me,” the newcomer answers cockily.

T’Challa already doesn’t like him. Here he is bleeding non-stop on his suit; bruised and aching awhile they make small talk. He decides right away that the stranger is not here to help him.

“Damn, ya’ll really worked him over,” T’Challa hears the man say.

“ He’s a touf’ one t’ crack it seems.”

T’Challa senses a presence close to him and tenses. He feels like the newcomer is accessing him and is annoyed that he can’t do the same.

“Take off his blindfold,” the stranger commands. ”Let's see what you boys have been getting up too.” Chuckles start again, but they do as the stranger says. That's unexpected.

The cloth lifts from his eyes, and he blinks a few times to adjust to the light. T’Challa was correct; he is in a warehouse. Around the room, seven people are positioned while he’s in the center. The only lights are from a few lamps above and a cracked window.

He focuses back to the man, who--T’Challa realizes--is in his personal space. He pushes down the urge to lean back.

“Do you mind?” he barely rasps out frowning.

The newcomer--regrettably-- is quite handsome, and T’Challa was right, he looks slightly out of place with his sagging blue jeans, black combat boots, and white tank.

His hair is shaved on the sides to a fade, and the top has short dreads styled to one side. His face is chiseled, with full lips and glowing skin; eyes narrow, cut and dark-brown--like a hawk or giant cat.

Those eyes scan over his face, probably cataloging every bruise and cut that was inflicted and makes a full scan of his body.

“Give me space,” the stranger speaks, and again they follow his order.

They move a good deal away to the outer walls of the room. T’Challa tries to focus his eyes on the attractive face and NOT on his equally beautiful body….like his arms. Chiseled, large…

Stop.

Focusing on his face isn’t helping much either, so he chooses to look around the room.

“Now, what’s a ‘fine’ thing like you, doing in a place like this?” the stranger speaks in a low tone.

T’Challa’s eyes snap back at the comment, and the other man smiles as he crouches down, so he’s peering up at T’Challa.

“I didn’t ask to be here,” answers T’Challa, his voice more clear.

The stranger's eyes light up, and the smile forms into a boyish grin. T’Challa would call it charming if it weren’t for the circumstances. It makes the bound man dislike him even more.

“Damn, and you got an accent too?” he stands back up and turns to a large man close to the door. “You might need to leave this one alone, homie. I think I’m in love.”

The stranger gets more chuckles from the thugs before turning back to T’Challa. From his jeans back pocket, he draws out a long hunting knife with covering. T’Challa doesn’t even flinch; he chooses to watch the other slip it out of its leather glove.

The stranger draws closer to T’Challa--knife in hand-- and taps the gleaming side of it on his cheek.

“It’d be better for you if you give them what they want," he advises. " Trust-- being a hero in this situation ‘ain't in your best interest.”

The knife still presses to his cheek; cold and promising. “Are you trying to scare me?” asks T'Challa.

“You not? This ain't no joke, lovely. These men are trained to maim, to kill. You’d have ta’ be crazy not to see that.”

“I can take care of myself.”

“Yea, I can see that’s going real' well for you.”

T’Challa doesn’t answer the remark. The more he talks to the stranger, the more aggravated he’s becoming. In these situations, it’s best to keep a cool head, but the stranger has a gift of getting a ‘rise’ out of him for some reason. T’Challa can’t afford to let that happen.

The man circles around until he’s behind T’Challa. “Yeh know, the 'silent treatment' has never worked on me, not in any of my relationships.”

T’Challa can’t help but bite. “ I don’t know you.” He feels a shift in the air and a warm breath whispers in his ear. The man's senses are suddenly flooded with the smell of sharp spices, whiskey, and cigarette smoke. It should appall him, but he finds it nice.

“We can get to know each other.”

“ I'll pass.”

“Playing hard to get, uh?”

“I’m not playing out all.”

The knife comes back gleaming in front of him. “Don’t say I didn’t do anything nice for you.” There’s a small tug to T'Challa's wrists before the stranger casually walks back into vision. The knife is being placed back in its leather pouch.

T’Challa feels he has missed something.

“Come on ya’ll, let’s let ‘pretty boy’ stew for a bit longer,” he yells to the others. They all oblige before starting to head out. One by one they disappear until the stranger is left. He gives another charming smile before winking and closing the door, T’Challa can hear a bolt locking.

He waits for a few minutes, letting the voices and laughter retreat, giving the thugs a second chance to come back and beat on him some more, but he’s left alone.

T’Challa sighs as he glances around the now empty room. He yanks at the binding along his wrists and finds them looser...huh.

With a few tugs they are loose enough for both wrists to slip through, and with those untied, T'Challa pulls his arms forward--wrestling the ropes around his body until they sag. In minutes he is free from the wooden chair; stands up, adjusts his suit and activates the tracking device on his kimoyo beads.

T’Challa looks to the door and heads to it.

….

….

And leaves the warehouse in burning fire for their hospitality.

 

\------

 

  
One year after London.

T’Challa sits on the balcony of his modern ‘modest’ loft in Barcelona, his sister, Shuri, babbles and types on her electronic pad as they sit drinking tea mid-afternoon. Money has been transferred to each team member as a job well done, and all known associates have scattered to their corners of the earth.

It’s a rare downtime for the siblings and T’Challa takes advantage as best he can. For one thing, his signature three-piece suit is replaced with a loose shirt and cotton pants. A type of attire that would be surprising to his many co-workers but the norm to someone like Shuri.

The young woman’s fingers type fast as she catches up on the latest news and updates in the world and dream-sharing. She’s a hacker, a nosey one, and goes in and out of other extractors missions to see what they are up too.

“Looks like Mitch’s plans are about to go ‘pear-shaped,” she says shaking her head.

T’Challa sips his tea and looks to her. “How so?”

“Their point is didn't do so well with researching the client. The mark’s mind is pretty militarized--I'd say they will last 2 minutes below.”

“Two minutes goes a long way.”

She glances at T’Challa skeptically. “Yea, if you know what you’re doing.”

Shuri goes back to her screen, already moving on to another team. They sit in silence for a few minutes with the occasional typing in the background until he hears an excited squeal from the girl and looks at her questionably.

“Sorry,” she half apologizes. “Looks like W’Kabi is branching out.”

The news is a cause for excitement. For most in dream-share, it’s all about contracts and where the money is coming. Rarely there are individual teams with loyalty, but that doesn’t mean they do not exist.  
  
T’Challa has unconsciously fit himself into that category. Ever since London a year ago, he chooses to surround himself with a set of people each extraction that he can trust.

It’s a risk, having a regular team gives the enemy a target but also gives T’Challa peace of mind that if he’s under, someone top-side will have his back. Shuri is apart of his group, along with a ‘tank’ named Okoye and yes, sometimes W’Kabi; who’s a chemist.

The set group has made an impression for themselves in dream-share and usually only work together; until now.

“Who’s he with?” asks T’Challa curiously.

Shuri bites her lip with eyes lit and excited. She lives for these type of questions that lets her genius mind search and snoop until she solves the riddle to the problem.

“Torres, Livingston….Linda.”

“Linda?”

“Yea, she’s their architect,” confirms Shuri still searching.  
  
T’Challa mind drifts to an elegant yet cold face. He had the chance to meet her once a few months ago and got a ‘vibe’ from the woman right off the back. T'Challa didn't know if she was looking at him like a puzzle to be solved or a bug to exterminate.

At the time he was half interested in why she held such severe aggression towards him when they had never met before but never found out the reasoning.

“What of Dimitri?” he asks, knowing she usually works with the chemist.

Shuri snorted. “He’s pregnant and living the life in Greece at the moment.”

T’Challa arched an eyebrow, before sipping his tea. “Oh.”

Shuri laughs as she continues to scan. “It’s only a matter of time before mama and baba ask you when they will be getting grandkids.”

T’Challa glares. “ Don’t start Shuri and I’m not the only child,” he says looking at her pointedly.

“Yea, but you’re the oldest,” she snaps back, knowing she’s correct.

T’Challa shakes his head--an indication that the topic is over for now and ignores a few giggles coming from the younger. Silence elopes them again before Shuri gives a light hum.

“I’ve never seen him before,” she comments after a few minutes.

“New face to the profession?” asked T’Challa.

Shuri shakes her head and vigorously starts typing. “Not sure, he seems to have a history with a few people in the group...Livingston..” T’Challa watches her type and search. “ Oh, he goes by code names. Let me see if I can get a clear...read…” the typing continues and that knowing smile of accomplishment splits her face.

“Viola!” and she walks over to show T’Challa her findings.

There’s info on the left of the screen, but on the right is a blurred security photo of a man with cargo pants, vest...and dreads. T’Challa nearly spits out his tea and chokes.

“Brother! Are you all right!?” asks Shuri, patting him on the back.

The man coughs a few times before placing down his cup and turning his attention to the screen. The image is blurred, but he knows the silhouette well enough. It’s him, the American from the warehouse.

“Who is he?”

Shuri studies T'Challa for a few seconds but clicks something on the screen that triggers two paragraphs of info.

“He has several code names it seems, “ she begins pointing to a long list. “The ones in bold seem to be the most common he goes by.”

One name stands out to T’Challa. “Killmonger?" he says tasting the name on his tongue. "Killmonger the forger?” he asks not hiding his surprise.

Shuri shrugs. “Not a very common name. It has to be the same person.”

“But-” and T’Challa stops.

He thinks back to the warehouse, to the knife, the flirting, the ease that radiated from the other. Was it all a show? It wasn’t a coincidence that T'Challa's ropes had been cut right after ‘Killmonger’s’ playful interrogation. So maybe a double agent?

“He must be good based on this long list,” adds Shuri.

T’Challa nods in agreement. To be a forger was a specialized talent and something an average person would not be able to accomplish. Which is why--thinking back to London a year ago--Killmonger had such natural acceptance with the thugs in the warehouse. How they listened to him and were so friendly.

Even after only five minutes of dialogue; the fact the forger could get under T'Challa's skin was a talent. It proved some of his abilities...

“We have to ask W’Kabi what it was like working with him,” commented Shuri looking at the screen.

T’Challa gives nothing away but nods all the same.

 

  
\------

 

  
16 Months after London.

A turn around the bar sets the room up for both T’Challa and Okoye. The event is a sort of ‘merry-go-round’ that ushers in clientele; one just has to know where to look. For T’Challa and Okoye, they look only for sport and nothing else this time around.

“I see someone has caught sight of you,” teases T'Challa at his close friend.

Okoye returns the comment with a glare and chooses not to look where T’Challa is nodding. The man--in question-- staring at the woman is another one of their associates.

W’Kabi hasn’t joined them for another extraction since his first team-up with Killmonger; but that doesn’t stop him from checking in on his longtime crush, Okoye.

“Will you put the man out of his misery and talk to him.”

“We are working,” his friend protests. The vivid yellow gown she wears enhances her skin’s natural glow and to T’Challa; probably driving W’Kabi insane.

After another few minutes of walking, they stop near the bar. “Okoye,” he scolds.

  
She signals for a drink from the bartender and grabs it the second it's set on the table. T’Challa goes on. “Talk to him. You haven't seen each other in months.”

"And how would you know that?" asks Okoye suspiciously. "Are you and Shuri poking your noses in others business again?"

"I do no such thing."

"But she would..., and you do not stop her," she glares knowingly and sips the liquid.

"Is there a reason why you're trying to avoid him," accuses the man with a smirk.

“Ugh,” she rolls her eyes, taking a large gulp this time. “FINE!” and storms off with the drink in hand.

T’Challa lets out a laugh loud enough for her to hear. “You’re welcome,” he yells before she is out of sight. She doesn't even give him a backward glance.

Instead of finding another person's company, T'Challa stays at the bar and orders a Whiskey Sour to nurse. He scopes his surroundings and sees W’Kabi has ushered Okoye to a dark corner away from the crowds. He looks at her with adoration as she tries to school her face to give nothing away, but T’Challa knows she’s crazy about him.

The 'Point' shakes his head, and a small smile lifts on his lips. He goes to take another sip of his Whiskey.

“So you do smile?”

The accent is unmistakable, but T’Challa still turns to see who is addressing him and his instincts are correct; Killmonger.

“I thought the ‘King’ never smiles,” walks up the other man, dressed in a navy blue suit with gold rim glasses framing his face. “At least, that‘s what all the rumors say.”

“I don’t understand why that’s any of your business,” answers back T’Challa.

The cold tone does nothing to deter Killmonger from sitting in the empty spot next to T’Challa. He bites his full bottom lip and gives that playful grin.

“Someone must have truly impressed you to get that reaction,” continues Killmonger ignoring T’Challa’s last comment. “I’m kinda jealous.”

“That seat is taken.”

“I doubt it, W’Kabi is probably keepin’ her busy.”

Killmonger signals to the bartender for a drink as he points to T'Challa's glass, before turning his full attention back to the man.

“I see you made it out in one piece ‘King.’”

“No thanks to you.”

“Don’t be that way, “ the other chuckles. “How do you think your wrists magically got cut loose?”

“If you are here to collect a deb-”

“I heard the whole place got burned to the ground too.”

That causes T’Challa to pause. He wonders if Killmonger has a point; if this is primarily a ‘hit’ or some monologue before T’Challa gets shot point-blank for his past deeds.

“Is that a problem?”

Killmonger laughs, and thank's the bartender with a wink when the other returns with his drink. “Hell nah,” he answers. “I just didn’t know the ‘King’ could be so ‘cut-throat.”

“Don’t call me that, Killmonger.”

The name has the other man scanning him up and down, those same cut eyes missing nothing. “That name seems to suit you. You think very highly of yourself. Not to mention your entourage," he says turning to the direction where Okoye and W'Kabi were last seen.

“Impressions,” speaks T’Challa. “And I don’t care what others think, or you.”

For the rude comment, he receives a smile instead of frown. It confuses him.

“Erik,” speaks Killmonger.

“Erik?”

“Instead of Killmonger,” the other says. “I only go by that name in trade, and I hear you are T’Challa.”

“What else have you heard?”

‘Erik’ shrugs before sipping on his drink. “You good at 'point' which is something I need right now.”

The statement catches T’Challa off guard. It’s rare to be propositioned for extraction in such a public setting unless you had the money to back it up--or just plain crazy.

“You’re talking about a job?”

“Yea, something I got in the works….”

T’Challa thinks to Killmonger’s record. The many missions, the many successes. He has no reason to be extremely caution --except for that London business-- but even then he seemed somewhat clean.

“What does it call for?” he finds himself asking.

“Word in the business is that you are one of the best ‘points’,” the other begins licking his lips. T’Challa decides to ignore the action and turns to sip his drink. “And you have all access to a record breaker.”

Of course, he’s speaking of Shuri. It looks like Erik has done his research and understood to negotiate with T’Challa in regards to his sister's talents. They are a package deal.

“What’s the level of complication?”

“Hard medium,” answers Erik rolling his shoulders. “We can use you’re ‘tank’ too for good measure. I already got a chemist and architect.”

“And the payoff?”

“40k...each.”

T’Challa debates this as he sips his drink. Erik waits patiently, his eyes steady on T'Challa's face. T'Challa ignores Erik’s gaze to think of the numbers and risks of the job; in the end, he would have to consult with Shuri on the offer.

“Killmonger,” comes a voice behind them.

They both turn to Linda, dressed in violet and silk with not much to the imagination. She looks at them both but has doe-eyes for Erik.

“Hey, what up girl?” the man greets wrapping his hand around her waist and giving her a chaste kiss.

Linda seems to live 'in' Erik’s attention. She leans into his body to kiss him again-- instead, Erik turns back to T’Challa.

“Yo T, have you met Linda?”

T’Challa nods, knowing for some reason he is not popular in her case. “We’ve met briefly before,” he greets extending out his hand. She grabs it politely, not as hostile as T’Challa remembers her being the last they met.

“She’s usually on my team with extractions,” continues Erik. He turns to her. “ I’m about to close this deal. I’ll see you in a bit.” Erik’s hand leaves Linda’s waist, and he focuses back on T’Challa.

T’Challa glances at Linda to see the cold mask he knows her for slipped comfortably on her face and aiming at him. He still doesn’t get the switch. Instead, T’Challa watches her lean in and peck Erik’s cheek--eyes coldly on him-- before leaving.

“So what you think?” asks Erik, not noticing the mood change.

“I’ll have to see,” answers T’Challa.

 

\------

 

The extraction is pretty simple then Erik specified, and T’Challa can’t help but be impressed at Killmonger's planning in all of this. There is only one hiccup due to a destination change, but everything works like clockwork.

In between the planning is always Erik; like in London--in T’Challa’s space. Testing boundaries he can cross, seeing what makes T’Challa tick, how far to go before he lashes out. It is an ever-present entertainment to all the team involved.

T’Challa wouldn’t be surprised if there were a betting pool on who would lose their cool each day. That being said, it was a long three months.

Two days before the extraction was supposed to go down, T’Challa was at his workstation checking flights, dates, and hotels to make sure everything was in order. It was late at night, and the team had left early by request of Killmonger. T’Challa was wrapping up his last-minute inquiries when he heard the door to the room open.

“You still here T?” asks Killmonger strutting in the room with a bomber jacket, jeans, and orange shirt.

T’Challa looks to the clock on the wall. It reads 11:42 pm.

“Shouldn't you be sleeping?” answers back T’Challa closing his laptop. “I thought Linda would be putting you to bed about now.”

From the cold shoulder, she gives T’Challa daily; he thinks he somehow threatens the female--why this is T'challa knows not, and Erik’s constant attention on him is not helping matters. T’Challa doesn’t care much about her attitude, just as long as it doesn’t affect the job.

“So you got jokes?” asks Erik walking over.

T’Challa raises an eyebrow. “I mean it. Why are you here?”

“Maybe I’ve been noticing your late nights…”

“It’s the only way I can get work done without interruption.” T’Challa reaches for his burgundy leather jacket, but Erik gets to it first.

“Need a ride to the hotel?

He wants to say no, but there isn’t any reason why he should. Instead, he nods and grabs his laptop, a few files, and follows Erik to the rental car. They slip in without a word and ride off into the night. The hotel is only a few miles away from the warehouse, so thankful for T’Challa it’s a short ride. Though, this doesn't stop Erik from talking.

“So everything’s settled for Tuesday?”

T’Challa nods. “I have the habit of triple-checking my work," he explains. "It’s how I’m so efficient.”

“You mean OCD.”

“I mean being extremely prepared,” he playfully glares, and Erik laughs a little causing T’Challa to smirk.

They settle in a rare silence as they drive down empty roads.

“So what did you mean back there?” pipes up Erik after a few minutes.

“Hmm?”

“About Linda putting me to bed? What’s that supposed to mean?

T’Challa frowns and licks his lips as he contemplates the answer to Erik’s question. He figured it was a pretty clear statement.

“I meant what I said,” he starts going for a direct approach. “Shouldn’t you be with her warming your bed?”

They stop at a stoplight. “You think I’m fuckin’ her?”

T’Challa rolls his eyes but answers. “It’s obvious that she has an attachment to you.”

“But you think we together because of that?”

“Am I wrong?”

Erik makes a clicking sound with his teeth. “Yea, actually you are.”

T’Challa ignores the flutter in his chest at the statement. He has no time for this.

“It’s none of my business,” he states trying to diffuse the subject.

“Is that why you've been playing hard to get this whole time?”

T’Challa can only give a startled stare as the light turns green. Erik stays put just staring back at him.

“What?” asks T'Challa.

“You heard me,” the other answers. “I know when someone’s feelin’ me, T.”

T’Challa's frown deepens, and he turns to the open street before going back to Erik. “We're on the job.”

The other shrugs. “That it?”

“It’s unprofessional.”

“To you.”

“We don’t even like each other.”

Erik smiles. “T, that’s the best kinda sex.” Erik leans in with a boyish smirk spread on his face. “Come on, all that fighting between us, makes for some sweet sexual tension.”

T’Challa still thinks this is extremely unprofessional. He feels out of pure principle that he shouldn't give in to Erik's misguided logic--but, the option is clear and vivid on the table.

And they are both adults.

He turns to Erik and closes the gap between them.

 

\------

 

It’s 5 am when T’Challa is entirely coherent again. He’s sore with bruises along his hips, neck and inner thighs. He shivers at the memory of Erik pushing and pulling. Using his strength to position him on the bed--taking his time in prep and foreplay--causing noises to come out of T’Challa that he never thought possible.

Now T’Challa understands why Linda is so territorial. Erik is a great lover.

But it’s over now, and Erik is nowhere in sight. T’Challa pushes the urge to hug the other’s pillow where he slept just an hour ago and decides to get up and find his clothes instead. It’s a much harder task then he anticipates.

Once they entered Erik’s hotel room, T’Challa was manhandled to the wall, kissed senselessly--among other things-- and stripped down. The stripping was in increments, first starting with his shirt, belt...and once they reached the bedroom, pants, and briefs.

He manages to find his briefs along the side of the bed and sits to start pulling them on when Erik walks into the room.

“Yo,” the other greets wearing a fluffy bathrobe. Erik carries in his hand a drink filled with amber liquid and stops when he sees T’Challa adjusting his briefs. “You going somewhere?”

That catches T’Challa by surprise. He assumes this is a one-night-stand and based on Erik’s personality he would be right, except for the way the other is looking at him now.

“I…” he stops not really knowing what to stay. His assumptions seem to be incorrect, and it throws everything he thinks he knows about Erik off kilter.

Erik walks over and hands him the glass. “It’s your Whiskey Sour.”

T’Challa masks his surprise by taking a full gulp of the drink and watches as Erik takes off his robe. He doesn’t have a chance to get another sip since the glass is taken from him and disregarded on one of the side tables. Erik gently, but firmly pushes T’Challa flat on the bed and climbs over him.

“Time for round two and three, baby.”

“Round thr-!?”

 

  
\------

 

Two years after London.

Something about Amsterdam in the summer relaxes T’Challa. He’s just pulled a job, his team scattered in the wind and enjoying a long-awaited vacation form the life of a point-man. Shuri has succeeded in going home to see their parents and they ask about T’Challa daily. He finds himself avoiding them the older he gets.

Instead of being a dutiful son, he sits on a balcony of a one bedroom suite and watches the city. On these rare moments, he thinks about life, what it would be like if he left dream-sharing; what it would feel like to just live. T’Challa may be still young, but he knows he has a limit in this sort of business. Someday, he will become irrelevant.

A knock at the door snaps him out of his daydream, and T’Challa figures it’s the bottle of wine he ordered up to the room. He walks through the spacious living quarters pass the kitchen to the door and opens it.

“Hey sweetheart,” greets Killmonger with a bottle of wine in his hand. He takes advantage of T’Challa’s surprise and waltzes into the room without invitation. “Nice digs you got here.”

“Erik?” finally speaks T’Challa closing the door. “What are you doing here?”

The man smiles and sets the bottle down on one of the kitchen's granite counters. “What? You’ not happy to see me?”

“You know what I mean,” glares T’Challa. “Aren’t you supposed to be in Venice?”

The question causes a smile to break out on his face. T’Challa can see gold incisors at the bottom of his teeth gleaming. “You keeping tabs on me babe?”

T’Challa rolls his eyes. “I keep tabs on all my associates.”

Erik snorts and walks over to T’Challa before grabbing his waist. He pulls T’Challa flush against his chest and gives a deep kiss. T'Challa melts as a soft hot tongue licks T'Challa's lower lip before delving into his mouth.

The Point forces himself to pull back. “What are you doing here?”

Erik shrugs and discards his light jean jacket. “Maybe I missed you? You ever think about that?”

T’Challa rolls his eyes but allows Erik to unbutton his shirt, undo the clasp of his slacks. He should feel a little annoyed that Erik already knows the layout of his hotel room. T'Challa doesn’t know how the asshole knows where the bedroom is, but as they strip he makes a note to ask later.

Erik leads him to the other room while lifting his shirt, taking off his pants until T’Challa can only see pure perfection. All he can focus on is rippling muscles under the warm skin. Erik flexes and rolls his neck like he’s about to do a workout. T’Challa tries to ignore him by folding his shirt and slacks in a nearby chair.

The forger wastes no time and goes for T’Challa, pinning him to the nearby wall. Strong hands wrap around his waist, raise up along his back to T’Challa’s neck. They kiss, long and slow. Erik grips him hard and presses into his body like they are trying to blend into the wall.

T’Challa doesn't understand how the other can hold onto so much passion. How Erik can save enough just for him. Just for these moments. The Forger sucks on one of his fingers before reaching down and playing with the rim of T'Challa's hole; slightly pushing in.

Erik likes to tease. His smile is predatory as he studies T'Challa's face. "Can't wait to get in here," he murmurs going back to circling the other's rim. "Missed the way you feel."

The words are gratifying, and T'Challa tries to snap out of the lovely haze Erik is so good making. "It's nothing you haven't felt before," he counters trying to push down the warmth spreading along his body.

He gets a laugh for the comment, but Erik doesn't deny it, and that leaves a trace of bitterness to envelop the warmth.

"Do I have to worry about you getting knocked-up?"

T'Challa stiffens. Erik starts pushing in and out again--making the muscles looser.

"What are we in high school?" tries to hiss out T'Challa, but still flutters his eyes close at the jolts of pleasure running up his spine.

"Just making sure sweetheart. We don't need a baby running around right now," chuckles Erik, eye's half-lidded.

T'Challa manages to glare. "For your information, I'm on birth-control asshole."

Erik lifts up one of T’Challa’s legs, removes his fingers and starts stroking his dick before positioning himself.

"No need to name call babe. Just checkin'."

T’Challa knows why Linda is so possessive of Erik. It’s how the other man makes you feel your the only one that exists in his world. He hates it because it's so easy to fall.

 

\------

 

Three years after London.

Everything is so good that T’Challa knows it will all turn sour eventually. He knows this because T'Challa's never been lucky or cursed--life is just too unpredictable to be optimistic.

It does turn sour. In a blink of an eye.

It’s been a month after his latest rendezvous with Erik and T’Challa’s not feeling well. During their random meet-ups, T'Challa has been in and out of extractions. The Point has recently stopped taking jobs, due to the constant stomach issues that have put him indisposed the past week.

He blames it on that sushi roll he split with Shuri a few days ago. Once he tells Shuri of his sickness, she informs him that she didn’t have any symptoms. So when the vomiting doesn’t let up, he goes to the doctor.

T’Challa finds out he’s pregnant.

 

  
\------

 

Three years and two weeks after London.

Erik takes the news better than expected but still manages to piss him off.

"It's mine?" the other asks.

T'Challa grits his teeth as he controls the urge to lash out. "Do you want to get shot?"

Erik can be spontaneous, but he's not an idiot--for the most part. "So want do you want to do?" he asks instead.

T’Challa’s annoyance peaks as the other man keeps looking at his stomach instead of his face--like his stomach is supposed to grow to show evidence of a baby magically.

“I’m not trying to trap you,” assures T’Challa drinking his tea. "I just wanted to let you know."

"You keepin' it?"

They are at a local cafe in Paris, T’Challa’s parents have already been told about the pregnancy, and even though they are disappointed in the randomness of T’Challa’s status, they are still thrilled to have a grandchild on the way.

"Yes," he answers.

Erik seems more fascinated than concerned that there’s a baby in the mix. It’s odd to T’Challa, but he pushes the behavior aside for later.

Erik nods, biting his lip. “I want to be apart of the baby’s life.”

That surprises him. T'Challa expected Erik to pat him on the back and go on his merry way. Not that he was needed help to raise a child. T'Challa is financially stabled and not worried about Erik providing, but it's still surprising.

T’Challa shrugs. “Like I said I don’t expect anything," he repeats.

The other’s gaze shifts to T’Challa’s midsection again. “Do we need to get married?”

“What?!”

"We should get married if we're having a baby."

There's that familiar flutter in his chest, and T'Challa excuses it as a sign that his morning sickness will be starting up soon.

"This isn't the 1950's."

"My pops will expect it."

T'Challa goes quiet and tries not to gape. It's not just from the unofficial proposal, but also Erik speaking of a family member. He's never done that before.

"I don't think a baby is a good enough reason to get married Killmonger."

Erik has a thoughtful expression on his face. " It's not like we hate each other, T. We compatible in more things then we thought," and sharp eyes focus on his mid-section. "We could work it out."

The flutter has moved further up his body to his pounding heart. T'Challa hates that he likes the dumb logic...because it's what he's dreamed of hearing. However, his practical side tells him this is utterly ridiculous and will not work.

He doesn't say yes.

 

\------

 

Four years and five months after London.

T’Challa sees Okoye cradling one of the twins and his heart melts. It was a long labor-- painful, but worth it as he looks at Shuri cradling Taj, while Okoye rocks a curious Dahlia. His parents have come, gone and the ample living space is decorated with gifts for the babies.

T’Challa is exhausted but smiles while he walks around the room, stretching his back and legs for some exercise. He’s glad to have help from his teammates. The twins are six months old and growing every day.

They look like their father, who is absent at the moment. According to Shuri, off on extraction in Bermuda with Linda and his team. T’Challa tries to push down the feeling of unease at them teaming together. The point finds that Erik is more away from him and the twins as time passes.

He looks to his ring, a simple silver band that Erik gave to him two months before the twins were born. It's more of a cheap trinket in his eyes than a symbol of a union in the light of reality.

The marriage was performed with good intention, but immaturely and T’Challa won’t let the twins live through two parents that do not get along, let alone not even love each other.

T’Challa blames himself for giving in at the last minute. Erik is spontaneous that way, his carefree attitude rubbing on him. But in the end, they both weren’t happy.

Obviously.

So while they avoid each other, Erik continues with his extractions and T’Challa takes care of the babies in symmetry to working as a consultant in dream-sharing.

The Point doesn’t care anymore. What he and Erik had the last eight months now seems very close to a form of ‘puppy love,.' Looking out the bay windows of his apartment, T'Challa takes off the simple band and places into a desk drawer.  
  
He’s already sent his 'husband' the divorce papers. It’s just a waiting game now.

  
\------


	2. 2. Breaking Habits

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time goes by...and trouble comes knocking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, 
> 
> I know it's been a while and I genuinely apologize. I haven't been able to get near a computer to write for weeks because of work. This one is the closest to being submitted because of the length. I wanted to post something to you all, so I hope you enjoy it. 
> 
> Also thanks to everyone for the comments! I'm happy you like this sorta crossover fic and the story structure. Enjoy!

  
**10 Years after London.**

 

Shuri doesn’t understand why she humors this behavior. It’s too late for it to be a single favor and way into the realm 'habit.' However, she drives down a familiar street, parks on a familiar block and walks down a cobbled road worn with decades of age.

The apartment she’s heading to is beautiful and historical like everything else in Paris. It’s settled in the 4th Arrondissement among the designer boutiques and vintage shops. Shuri notes it’s not that far away from her brother’s location in the 8th district. She finds it funny.

Shuri knocks a dark blue knocker attached to a powder-blue double door, she also rings the doorbell for good measure and waits. A few seconds later she hears the scurrying of feet on the other side of the door, and the left side opens.

“Bonjour, Tante Shuri,” she’s greeted by a little boy.

Only for her niece and nephew will Shuri continue this ‘habit,’ only for them.

Taj gives a small smile as he’s kissed on the cheek…

“Bonjour, petit ourson,” she replies back.

“Taj!” yells Killmonger from the hallway. He’s speed walking to the entrance with sweatpants and a graphic tee. “What I tell you about answering the door to strangers,” he scolds.

Taj looks at his father strangely. “Auntie isn’t a stranger,” he speaks in English.

The man bites his lip trying to be serious, “Don’t get smart, little man.”

The boy just blinks before walking down the hallway and disappearing. Killmonger turns to Shuri and side-steps to let her in. Shuri notices--as always--he looks over her shoulder. One would think he was paranoid by the way he scans the outside searching.

Shuri is a genius, but even a child--like Taj or Dahlia--can see there's more to the scoping.

He’s looking for someone.

Shuri always wants to tell him that ‘he’s’ not there, that T’Challa is not around, but she decides to mind her own business, for once.

“Hey, lil’ sis.”

“Erik,” she greets taking off her light sports jacket and hanging it on a nearby hook. “Are they almost ready to go?”

The man nods and struts back down the hall. “We just finishin’ breakfast.”

They enter the kitchen area, lit from the sunlight with balcony doors to a small patio. Dahlia sits on a small island munching on pancakes, while Taj is adding spoonfuls of berries to his plate.

Once Dahlia sees Shuri she perks up, “Auntie Shuri! Baba ṣe pancakes, ṣe o fẹ diẹ ninu awọn?”

Shuri shakes her head, gives her a kiss and little swaying hug before stealing a bite of Dahlia’s pancakes from her fork.

“Hey!” the little girl whines and pouts as she snatches the utensil away.

The twins are like both parents but also hold specific characteristics of each one. Dahlia has Erik’s complexion and most of the time his personality. She’s usually at ease and very good with people until she has a meltdown. When Shuri looks at her, she sees T’Challa staring back--the eyes, which are brown and ‘puppy-dogged,’ just like her other dad.

Taj, on the other hand, physical looks more like T’Challa. Same coloring and face structure. He is also subdued like him, but still has the charm of Killmonger when he’s ‘fishing’ for something. Eye’s large and brown, but can cut sharp and resemble Erik’s when Taj is concentrating.

“Where’s dad?” asks Taj picking up a cherry and popping it in his mouth.

Shuri notices Killmonger pause at the question while he clears plates in the small kitchen.

“He just got done with a job, Tajjy. By the time I drop you off he should be home.”

Taj seems satisfied with the answer and glances at his dad expectantly. Killmonger stares at his son, voicing something through his eyes alone. That causes Shuri’s eyebrows to raise in question. She wants to inquire on the ‘look’ the two are giving, but Dahlia starts tugging her shirt.

“Yes Dahlia?” she asks patiently. With six-year-old like grace, she holds up her fork.

“Eat,” she urges with a smile. Shuri grins at Dahlia’s change of heart and obediently opens her mouth to have a piece of syrup...with a side of the pancake.

“Mmmmmm,” she says as the sweetness hits her mouth. Dahlia smiles proudly and goes to fork another piece. This time she turns to Taj who is gobbling a plate of fruit. His nose wrinkles at Dahlia, but opens his mouth so she can feed him.

“Has T’Challa been gone long?” pipes up Erik washing his hands with a towel.

Shuri shakes her head as she sips some water from Dahlia’s cup. “It was a low-key job, about two weeks.”

Killmonger licked his lips, face unreadable. “ That IS pretty quick turn-around...wit’ who?”

Shuri sips the drink longer to give more time to handle the answer. She wonders if T’Challa cares her airing out his business to an ex? Not that Killmonger mattered in the first place, he already ruined his opportunity years ago. However, Shuri, also knew that Erik was meddlesome and through the years he was becoming increasingly curious about his estranged ex-husband.

“What? You not going to tell me?”

Shuri shrugs. “I don’t know if it’s my place.”

Erik shakes his head and laughs slightly. “ That never stopped you before, lil sis,” he shrugs. “I’m just curious, the kids miss him that’s all…”

Good play.

That’s the habit Shuri is working hard to break. Being the mediator between both parties; ornery T’Challa and pushy Erik. Ever since the divorce papers went through years back, T’Challa has literally washed his hands of Erik and has seen the man only a number of times in the years.

The Point sneakily recruited Shuri and Okoye to do his bidding, and they obliged--out of sympathy mainly. For Shuri; knowing that even though her brother put up a good front on the outside; when T'Chala falls, T’Challa falls deep, and Erik has him sinking down in a bottomless pit.

Out of self-preservation T’Challa’s reaction is usually to get as far away from the problem as possible...SO...Erik’s been quietly banned from T’Challa’s presence whenever possible, and because the two worked sporadically on different extractions, it wasn’t that hard to accomplish.

With the twins visiting each parent; T’Challa has Shuri, Okoye and their parents at his disposal. Babysitting to being a cab service--which Shuri is doing now--they all transport the children from one parent to another.

It was exhausting...emotionally. A favor turned habit that has lasted all the way up until now. She loves her brother--really--but he’s too controlling and needs a little ‘spark’ to liven up his routine. Thankfully Shuri knows just the trick based on Killmonger’s curiosity.

Besides, it’s time to break the habit.

It was a two-player job,” she says deciding to throw caution to the wind. “With a ‘cleaner.’”

She visually sees his jaw tighten and even the twins go quiet, sensing their father dark mood change.

Huh. Well, she might as well put the nail in the coffin.

“A guy named M’Baku.”

Erik licks his lips and nods his head. The one thing that’s hard to control for him is usually his temper--mind, it takes a lot to get him heated.

“Uncle M’Baku?” asks Dahlia innocently.

Taj’s eyes go wide in alarm looking at his sister, before reverting back to his father quickly.

“Uncle?” asks Erik schooling his face to be neutral as possible. He leans on the corner and gives her a sweet smile, “What do you mean baby girl?” he looks to Taj.

Dahlia forks another piece of the pancake as she looks at her father. Shuri thinks she may be stalling. After all, the little girl is exceptionally bright and feeds off of others moods.

“M’Baku, we see him sometimes…” she nods munching away.

“Where?”

“Home, he helped Taj and me cook a cake.”

“Bake a cake Dalh,” murmurs Taj. Dahlia sticks her tongue out at him.

Killmonger’s eyebrows skyrocket to his forehead. Shuri can see his jaw clenching as the man stands back up. His gaze turns to Shuri, calculating.

And know it’s time to go Shuri feels. She senses a storm brewing, and yes, she wants to watch the spectacle but not before getting to a safe distance.

“Time to go kiddos!” she announces, and both kids hop off the chairs to scurry into another room.

After a pause with just Erik and Shuri in the room, he speaks. “So how long has Uncle M’Baku been around my kids?”

“I’m surprised T’Challa has never spok-”

“T’Challa don’t tell me shit, but I’ll deal with that later,” he interrupts. “What I don’t like is finding out some random stranger has been near my kids without me knowing.”

Shuri crosses her arms, automatically getting defensive for her brother. “You know M’Baku.”

“Yea, I do,” nods Erik. “I didn’t know they were involved tho.”

“You’re ‘involved’ with people all the time Erik, you can’t just-”

“I don’t take them around the twins,” he fires back sharply temper flaring. “And I’m NOT a ‘cleaner.’”

Shuri snorts. “You aren’t squeaky clean yourself,” she says rolling her eyes. “Besides, you should be talking to my brother about this not me.”

Erik stalks forward, shoulders tense and gait full of grace. He’s for sure pissed off. “I would, but I can never get near him,” he explains. “ A part of me thinks that’s not a coincidence.”

Killmonger looks at Shuri pointedly like he’s waiting for an explanation. Then the twins come bustling in with identical backpacks. Saving grace.

“Ready!” yells Dahlia beaming up at both adults.

Taj follows behind her eyeing both cautiously, especially his father.

Shuri nods exiting the kitchen and heading back to the hallway, they all follow behind. “Let’s go Cubs!”

The conversation blows over to last-minute checks on shirts and toothbrushes. Erik gives both kids their equally affectionate ‘goodbyes’ as they turn to leave.

“This ‘ain't over by the way,” he says in the doorway looking at Shuri. “Yo’ brother is good at coverin’ his tracks, but he forgets that I got my talents too. I’ll be seeing him real soon--promise.”

Shuri just nods before clasping both kids hands and heading towards the car. She debates on warning her brother of the ‘hurricane’ that’s about to hit. It will be slightly messy, but Shuri’s interest is peaked in the possibilities it holds.

  
  
\------

 

T’Challa arches his head back as the large man slowly grinds down on his crotch. They should stop, the kids will be here soon, and T’Challa refuses to expose them to this sort of activity, but...M’Baku is very talented when he sets his mind to it.

They just finished a small job, one that was simple and quick for once. As a celebration M’Baku likes to indulge himself whenever T’Challa will let him and based on this job, the man has a rare opportunity to explore and indulge.

T’Challa is also very horny. Being a single parent with two children and working jobs gives him less time for anything. Relationships are definitely out, so instead, he takes advantage of pockets of pleasure whenever he’s able.

With a twist of his hip, M’Baku presses him more to the wall. They both are shirtless, with slacks opened; grinding against each other. M’Baku has his arms encased around T’Challa’s torso, while he kisses and licks the Point's chest and neck. The grinding deepens causing them both to stutter shaky breath.

“Just let go,” a deep voice speaks into the silence of the room. The large man moves his hands to grip T’Challa’s narrow hips and starts thrusting. T’Challa moans as his mouth is attacked while the thrusting continues.

 

**_Paris 4 years ago_ **

 

_T’Challa wonders how the hell one can design such a beast of a stroller as he pushes into the voyeur of his parent's estate. It’s really a Chateau and has been in the family for decades. Tapestries and African art decorate the insides from their once homeland. But that’s irrelevant at this point, right now T’Challa is trying to handle a state-of-the-art double stroller that was gifted by his parents._

_He usually wouldn't bother with it because of the wonky mechanics, BUT, since he's come to visit--being the dutiful son--he knows that showing up without it would cause an argument. T'Challa parks it like a fucking car near the mouth of a hallway--swiveling and rolling until it’s parked parallel-- and starts the task of unbuckling the babies._

_Taj is fast asleep, while Dahlia looks at the space wide-eyed. She’s a good baby as he releases her from the stroller. Instead of wandering around she stands still waiting patiently for her father to grab her twin._

_“Dahl, you hungry baby?”_

_The two-year-old shakes her head vigorously and goes back to eyeing the space. She holds out her hand expectantly._

_“One-second cub,” assures T’Challa._

_The Point places a sleeping Taj on his shoulder and slings the diaper bag on the opposite. He grabs the Dahl’s hand and starts walking down the hallway. He heads to the breakfast nook, where he knows his mother likes to dwell around this hour._

_The door is cracked open, and T'Challa nudges it with his foot before they all slip inside. It’s early afternoon, and the room is filled with natural light. Ramonda--T’Challa’s mother--sits sipping tea and whispering with another woman, slightly older._

_T’Challa holds back a tired sigh. The woman has a strong jaw and is known never to smile. Wrinkles barely cover her face, and she wears silver hair back in a fierce bun. Her clothing pattern is a clear indication of the Jabari clan._

_“Mother,” he calls getting both of their attention._

_Ramonda gives an uncharacteristic squeal, before almost running over to the group. Dahlia looks startled and hides behind T’Challa’s leg. The twins have seen their grandparents as often as possible but still get a little shy._

_Ramonda is not deterred. “My babies!” she speaks before scooping up Dahila and lands a big kiss on her cheek._

_The woman goes to tickle the little girl’s stomach and causes Dahl to giggle. Setting her down, she gives T’Challa a peck on the cheek before grabbing Taj from his arms._

_“How are you?” she beams rocking him back and forth._

_“Very well, thank you. How are you?”_

_Ramonda just ‘Hmmm’s’ before she walks back to her seat taking her grandchildren with her._

_“Mandisa, see? I told you they are darling.”_

_The older woman looks at the kids sternly, Dahl doesn’t seem to notice the scrutiny as_ she’s takes _a powder cookie from her grandmother. The little girl bites it and offers a piece to Ramonda, who obliges with a ‘thank you.’ Without missing a beat, she takes another cookie and extends it to Mandisa._

_T’Challa smiles knowing full well that Dahlia is rarely unphased by anyone, even someone with a sour disposition. Mandisa plucks the cookie from her tiny fingers, and nods with a ‘thank you.’ The woman’s eyes lasers to T’Challa, warmth gone._

_“T’Challa,” she coldly greets._

_T’Challa nods respectfully. “Madame Mandisa, you are looking well.”_

_“Thank you,” she clips then scans him up and down. T’Challa is wearing a fitted black shirt with jeans. He’s about the same size he was pre-pregnancy, expect with a still puffier chest. Thankfully the twins are almost weaned off of breast milk._

_“You are looking decent...considering,” as her gaze lands to the twins. T’Challa bites his tongue and nods, before turning his gaze to his mother. Wretched woman._

_“I’m going to get some water,” he says turning to leave, trying to avoid the conversation of his marital status._

_“Of course honey,” replies Ramonda still making doe-eyes at the twins._

_T’Challa leaves._

_The kitchen is further down the hallway and was updated a few years back to be open with tones of light. In the fridge is an ice cold pitcher of water that T’Challa takes out before fetching a tall glass. He pours a cup, drinks it quickly before replenishing it and gulping down the liquid again._

_“Thirsty?”_

_T’Challa freezes at the deep voice. He places the cup down and turns to see a tall brown male with broad shoulders, and short cropped hair. T’Challa should've known if Mandisa was here ‘he’ would be present as well._

_“M’Baku,” he says stiffly._

_The taller man chuckles and moves closer. He’s wearing navy blue slacks with an off-white shirt. He accesses T’Challa appearance curiously._

_“This might be the first time I’ve seen you in jeans,” he jokes._

_T’Challa rolls his eyes and goes back to sipping his drink._

_“I haven’t seen you in quite some time,” the other continues. “ Word around is that...you were indisposed.”_

_Of course, there would be the gossip of his unplanned pregnancy. With the circles his family travels in, it’s hard not to keep such a scandal under wraps._

_“Though you do not look much different,” questions the Jabari._

_“Why? You thought I would have let myself go,” asks T'Challa setting his glass back down._

_“Come now, knowing you for so long...you wouldn’t have let that occur,” the Jabari gets closer, “I’m just surprised that the lucky man didn’t plan on putting another offspring in you.”_

_T’Challa continues to glare. M’Baku was known for his arrogance and blunt way of talking. It was something that T’Challa was tormented with as a child._

_“That is none of your business,” he answers. But he knows M‘Baku is just being his annoying nosey self._

_“No need to get testy,” the large man chuckles. And T’Challa suddenly realizes how close they are, in fact, the only time they’ve been in this proximity, fists are usually flying._

_T’Challa goes to step back, but M’Baku stops him by gripping his arm. He moves down the shorter man’s bicep until it rests on T'Challa's left hand. His fingers play with T’Challa’s ring finger. Which causes the Point to snatch it away and M’Baku to laugh._

_“I heard a ring occupied this finger once.”_

_T’Challa says nothing but clamps his left hand in a fist. It’s something he chooses not to think about. The divorce from Erik was seamless, which hurts T’challa the most. It took the Forger two months to send back the papers signed, and T’Challa guesses it would have been shorter if Erik weren’t between extractions._

_Two years later T'Challa has only laid eyes on Erik about three times, and he wants it to stay that way. The man demands the rights to see the twins and T’Challa allows it, but chooses his contact with Killmonger to be as minimum as possible._

_“What are you-” starts T’Challa noticing M’Baku lift up the same left hand. He’s shocked when the large man presses full lips to his ring finger. It’s slow and deliberate._

_At that moment Ramonda and Mandisa come waltzing in with a wailing Taj. They stop short at the display before them. T’Challa tries to snatch his hand away, but M’Baku holds on lifting his lips and giving a sly smile._

_“T’Challa?” speaks Ramonda eyes-wide. Taj is crying up a storm and leaning to get to him. Behind them, the cold line of Mandisa mouth warms slightly with a twitch as she looks between the two men._

 

**Present**

 

M’Baku can be a pain, but he’s incredibly persistent. Even after the embarrassing interruption in the kitchen, the Jabari made sure to be available to T’Challa whenever possible.

They hadn’t started to get physical until a year ago, because T’Challa was just too stubborn. M’Baku waited and poked until he wiggled into a tiny crack of the Point’s defenses....and here they are now.

M’Baku grips his ass as the kisses become feverish. The thrust, the friction makes T’Challa’s head spin--he tilts his head back releasing a moan.

 

**London--three months later.**

 

Erik is pissed, and he’s not just saying that...he REALLY is. Currently, the Forger is sitting in a lawn chair, gun to his temple in a horrible situation. Thing’s topside went wrong, things topside sometimes DO go wrong. However, it’s something he’s heard about and not really experienced first hand--until now.

A skinny guy that reeks of cigarette smoke is strutting around with a gun in his hand as he goes over the rules on how not to get shot. Erik thinks that this is irrelevant because the asshole’s crew looks to trigger happy and the asshole himself seems to have a small dick complex.

Erik has already spoken his peace and ended up with a few punches for his troubles. He sees his teammates are going into panic mode the longer this integration stands. Even Linda looks to be sweating bullets.

The skinny man circles around anyone that is remotely smaller than him; which includes Diana, Vic, and Linda. Erik and W’Kabi are left alone to the larger henchman. The forger’s been half listening but knows the group wants some entail on an extractor who’s apparently hard to find.

“We know this person was on the Benedict job,” the man reasons to the group. “We just want to know who he is and where to find him.”

“You want us to snitch,” bite's out Erik and the room tenses.

The skinny man walks up to and aims his silver gun in the middle of his face. Talk about overkill. Erik already has a gun pointed at his head already. He forces himself not to roll his eyes.

“You know something about it?” the guy asks to try to seem intimidating.

“This industry is about trust and secrets,” explains Erik. “You’d have to be a complete amateur or a true sap to give someone away.”

The gun goes under his chin. “I don’t care what you say, I want answers!”

“You’re not gettin’ any specifics..” answers Erik.

The skinny man’s gun leaves his chin before striking Erik in the jaw causing his jaw to snap to the left. There’s a gasp in the room, and the Forger spits out blood that pools on his tongue. The guys a dead man, he just doesn't know it yet.

But whoever gasped seemed to get the lunatic’s attention and Linda comes into Erik’s vision. She looks at him with watery eyes as the man holds on to her neck.

“I sense a lover,” the man smiles viciously as he gazes at her form.

Erik's face goes blank, but it’s far from the truth. He stopped messing around with Linda years ago because she got too territorial, and since they usually worked together, it just wasn’t a right combination.

She usually is pretty stoic and calm, but something about this situation is bugging the Forger. The look in her eyes, the wetness, and quivering; it’s a sign of something desperate forming, and he doesn't like it.

“You know something don’t you pretty?” the man whispers in her ear. “Tell me, tell me, and I’ll let your boyfriend walk.”

“Erik-”

The gun cocks near his temple, and she halts her speech. Erik believes it, he could be shot dead in an instant, but he has his babies at home...not to mention his ex-husband to wrangle back in line and under him on a bed. So...Erik has too many plans for this to be his end.

The man speaks again, “I told you all he was on the Benedict job, I know the person was on the extraction team because the job was flawless, except for one little hitch--Benedict’s kid. I know there were stolen bank statements and credit card numbers. Tell me who it is or I’ll kill your teammates, starting with him.”

Linda’s eyes are still watering, but there’s a flash now, some sorta dark gleam that Erik recognizes.

“T’Challa,” she speaks.

Erik’s eyes go wide. Even the others on the team are surprised by the name. They continue to stare at her in shock.

“T’Challa was the point on that job...,” she continues shakily staring at Erik. “He would know it all.”

"What the fuck Linda?!" yells Erik. He get's a punch in the face.

“T’Challa?” the skinny man questions.

She nods voice rising. “He is the...best.” and she almost says bitterly.

“Where is he?”

Linda shakes her head. “No one knows his location, but rumor has it he’s somewhere in Europe.”

“Fuckin’ bitch!” barks out Erik fuming. Linda looks startled at the outburst, but the skinny man smiles. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a phone.

“You hear that?” he speaks into the receiver.

There’s a crackle on the other end. “Roger, searching name know…we should be able to find him pretty fast.”

Erik glares murderously at the shriveling woman. He glances at W’Kabi who pulls his eyes to him, knowing already how high the stakes are if they don’t get to T’Challa first. Erik licks his lips forming some sort of plan in his head as he eye's the man with the gun to his temple.

There’s a chance that there may be casualties, but fuck it, he needs to get to T’Challa now....

Erik launches forward and rolls out of the chair colliding with his captor. A gun rings off, but ricochet's off the concrete floor. It’s all chaos. His team grabs, launches, and ducks in confusion.

The skinny guy grabs for Linda, but she knees him in the groin easily making him double over. Erik knocks out a guard next to him and goes for a gun that skitters on the floor. There’s a crack, and liquid fire penetrates his bicep.

“Erik!!!” yells Linda, but he doesn’t falter. He goes for the gun and shoots 'skinny' guy in the kneecaps. The man howls in agony after falling to the ground.

“W’Kabi, we need wheels!”

In the distraction, the chemist has grabbed the PASIV along with tubes of Somnacin. He nods to Erik quickly, before running through the entrance of the room and heading downstairs. Diana and Vic are going through a window to the fire escape.

Erik heads over to 'skinny', he's crouching with tears streaming down his cheek. “Who was on the other line?” asks Erik kneeling down. On the side is Linda looking anxious and biting her lip. All the other henchmen have been laid flat on the ground dead or unconscious.

“It-it-i…” the man babbles, apparently not in his element now that he doesn’t have the upper hand.

Erik cocks the gun and shoves it under the man’s chin. “One more chance. Tell me.”

“Erik…” pipes Linda.

“Shut-up!” he yells causing her mouth to clamp shut.

“Speak,” he says again to the man.

  
\------

 

Erik sifts through 'skinny guys' phone on a computer screen. The Forger wears gold-rimmed glasses as he types away at the stolen laptop he snagged from the train station. The man’s on edge, biting his lips, bouncing his knee as he tries to hack the phone.

W’Kabi has left to look for reception on the bullet train leading to Paris. The three of them are on St Pancras Int and 75 minutes into the trip. In the car they hijacked before arriving at the station, both men tried to get a hold of T’Challa or Okoye but found the numbers disconnected.

That didn’t mean to cause alarm. In extractors line of work, it was common to disconnect old numbers, but it didn’t help Erik’s nerves.

“Erik…” begins Linda. The woman has been a quiet tail for both Erik and W’Kabi for the past hour.

“It’s Killmonger.”

She pauses, eyes starting to water. “I’m sorry.”

“Erik glares up. “Are you tho? Because you gave up T’Challa’s name pretty quick.”

Linda looks down--a sign of guilt in Erik’s eyes. “ I just wante-”

“What the fuck is wrong wit’ you?”

Linda opens her mouth, but no sounds come out. Erik glares before eyes scan back to his computer. He reaches in his shirt and pulls out a silver chain necklace. Attached to it are two silver rings, one is his, the other is T’Challa’s...their wedding bands.

He fiddles with the rings, a habit that he’s developed ever since he made the necklace. He thinks about his kids, Taj and Dahlia. Erik’s eyes slide shut praying to Bast for their protection, he needs to get to his babies…

The compartment door slides open, and W’Kabi walks in. “Find out anything?” asks Erik.

The man shakes his hair. “They are hidden very well.”

Erik sighs. “No phone reception?”

Another negative shake. “ But the train's wifi works for computers,” says the chemist gesturing to the laptop. Erik nods as he types into a private email and sends out a 911 to Shuri, it’s a risk, but at this point he’s desperate.

  
\------

  
T’Challa scrubs the table of sandwich crumbs before dropping the rag under the faucet to clean it off. It’s a lazy day with the twins, lunch has been served and eaten. Taj and Dahlia are upstairs taking a nap giving T’Challa rare alone time. He rinses the cloth and places it on a dish rack.

Taking a cup of coffee with a splash of Bailey’s to the living area, T’Challa sips before sitting on a comfy chaise. His body is finally relaxed, settled and he closes his eyes…

*Knock knock knock*

T’Challa’s eyes snap open, and he groans as the knocking persists. Placing his cup on the coffee table, he heads to the apartment door. The Point's mind drifts to a hidden compartment along the wall of the entrance, it holds a gun in case of unfriendly visitors; he glances at it as a reminder.

The man doesn’t expect anyone unfriendly on the other side of the door, it's just a cautious habit. T'Challa has buried, cryptid and coded his location with the help of Shuri. It would have to be an inside job for anyone to find him.

Unlatching the locks and bolts the man opens the door...only to get pushed back roughly by a pair of strong arms.

“Hey-” speaks T’Challa in alarm before he hears the door shut and bolted. His mouth is covered by a warm hand, and he’s pushed against the nearest wall.

T’Challa stares in surprise into the eyes of Killmonger, and it takes him a few moments to register that it, in fact, is his ex-husband. The Point starts to protest, only for Killmonger to shake his head and lean into his body more. His eyes speak ‘relief’ as he scans T’Challa’s face.

“Hi lovely,” he breathes with a grin. Killmonger lowers his hand down from the Point’s mouth, but his fingers suspiciously linger along T’Challa’s lips. “I’m glad your safe.”

T’Challa looks back in confusion and glances at the person behind Erik--Linda--his body suddenly goes rigid.

“What are you doing here?” he asks glancing back and forth at the two. He gives the Forger's body a rough push which doesn't help much of the closeness but gives him maybe an inch more of space.

Linda doesn’t answer, her gaze shifts uncharacteristically down, staring at her shoes. Killmonger licks his lips and glances to the open space of the apartment. “Where are my babies?”

Linda’s head snaps up. She gazes from the two men in shock. “Babies…” she whispers.

T’Challa frowns at her response but ignores it to focus back on Killmonger. “They’re taking a nap. We just ate 15 minutes ago,” he pauses, “I won't repeat myself.”

Then T’Challa glances at a deep red stain along the other’s right sleeve. “Is that blood?” he tenses scanning Killmonger’s body for more wounds.

“You’ve been compromised,” states Erik.

T’Challa startles. “What? How?”

Then an angry flash passes over Killmonger’s eyes, and his jaw stiffens. A growl is heard from the back of his throat as he steps back dropping his arms from T’Challa’s body. “Nevermind that now, we gotta go.”

“Excuse me?”

“They comin’ for you. It’s why I’m here, to get you out.”

T’Challa curses before walking across the room to the apartment entrance. Linda scurries out of his way like he has some sort of force-field around his being. T’Challa takes note of her weird behavior. His fist hits a part of the wall and a rectangular compartment swings out. Inside he takes his sliver magnum along with a few round casings.

“Who are they?” he asks checking the gun.

Killmonger shakes his head. “Not clear yet, but they were specifically asking about the Benedict job.”

That causes T’Challa to pause and turn slowly around to the two. “The Benedict job?” he repeats eyes calculating. “I wasn’t on that job.”

Linda inhales a sharp breath and leans into the comfy tan sofa nearby. She looks like she’s going to be sick.

Killmonger is staring at her hard, unforgiving. “I know kitty,” he replies. “Only consulting right?”

T’Challa glares and tries to hide his embarrassment at the old nickname. “Don’t call me that,” he says quickly. “I barely consulted that job, I was only brought in secretly because their Point was somewhat green to ‘mind militarization.’”

It's true, the task was so minimal that T’Challa told the team to keep their money. In fact, he specifically told them beforehand to not inform him on what the extraction entailed. Other than the name, he knew no specifics about the job.

“Eri-” speaks Linda gulping. “Killmonger, I s-s-w-wear I h-had no ide-”

“I’m not the one you should be apologizing too,” he snaps back walking past her to T’Challa. “Either way, these people think you got something to do with it. You gotta scatter,” the man grabs T’Challa’s wrist and rubs the underside. “We gotta go, lovely.”

"We?"

There’s a crash from a window in the room, and they all brace themselves as glass flies from the impact. T’Challa looks to see a medium capsule that wobbles upright for a few seconds before it opens with a hiss.

“Down!” he yells, and the bomb explodes into tiny sharp metal that embeds itself in anything out in the open. T’Challa looks to the ceiling and sees some of the metal has made it through the plaster. He shivers with rage.

“Mother fuckers…” grumbles Killomnger still kneeling.

Then they hear it. A cry coming from upstairs, T’Challa already knows who by the pitch.

“Dahl!” he runs to the staircase and bounds up to the twins room, he hears footsteps behind him and already knows it’s Erik. Dahlia’s cries are ringing louder as they near the entrance. She steps into the hallway, face covered with tears.

T’Challa doesn’t know how it happens, but Erik manages to get to her first and swoops her up into his arms. The little girl is surprised to see him, but hiccups and lays her face on his chest as she continues. All while, the Forger is checking her over for any injuries.

"You hurt baby-girl? Tell Daddy if you' hurt..." he repeats to her.

T’Challa takes a once over at Dahl before entering the room. He tries to stay calm when he spots Taj sitting on his bed clenching his arm. There’s blood. T’Challa can see red escaping through tiny fingers, silent tears are streaming down the six-year-olds face.

“I think...s-s-someting' bit me,” he says quietly.

The Point immediately kneels in front of his son and holds out his hand. “Let me see Tajjy,” he coos trying to sound calm.

Taj releases his hand from his right wrist and shows the wound. As T’Challa inspects it, he can make out a deep hole and sees there’s an exit wound on the other side. Apparently, the shrapnel from downstairs hit Taj’s small wrist and went clear through.

Those assholes are going to die.

But T’Challa keeps face, he nods to his son and smiles reassuringly to keep him calm. To improvise, he rips a sheet from one of the twin’s bed and wraps it tightly around the wound.

He picks up Taj and turns to Erik who is rocking a still upset Dahlia. She’s quiet now, but looking at her twin in sorrow.

“We gotta go kitty,” he says, face like concrete.

T’Challa nods, to emotionally occupied in correcting the nickname. “We need to get something first.”

 

\------

 

The roof is their salvation.

The group makes a stop in T’Challa’s bedroom--an emergency duffel bag--for when shit like this happens. The Point goes to grab the large duffel, but Erik snatches it from him before he can get to it. The other gives him a cheeky grin as he settles it on his shoulder and adjusts his hold on Dahl.

Linda has magically appeared with a gun in her hand and warns about the infiltration of the house. T’Challa is only half listening, he automatically heads to his large closet and pulls down on a long cord in the ceiling to reveal a shuffle of stairs to the attic.

They head up and out of this mess by skipping from roof to roof. Once the group is on street level, T’Challa is impressed to see W’Kabi in an unassuming van waiting for them a block away.

It doesn't take them long to secure the kids in the vehicle before driving off. After T’Challa buckles his seatbelt, he reaches for his phone to text an alert to his team. The Point doesn’t receive a response but doesn’t expect too.

“Will someone explain to me what’s going on?” he says looking square at Killmonger and Linda.

Linda is still acting out of character, which tips T’Challa off that she is the main source of his problem.

Erik switches his attention from Taj's wrist to licking his lips and accessing the point-man with keen interest. “We should find someplace to lay low first, relax the kids... and then I’ll tell you.”

T’Challa regrettably is unprepared and doesn’t have a nice set-up in the works for this sort of situation.

“I don-”

“I do, lovely,” interrupts Erik turning towards Taj like the conversation is over. T’Challa really hates him sometimes.

“Where?” he grits out.

“Trust me, kitty.”

 

\------

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Linda, Linda Linda...what did you do?????


	3. Chapter Three - Opportunities

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> T'Challa and Erik are on the run with the kids...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, this took a while. I wasn't expecting to have zero time to just relax and write for the last several months. Thanks to all sticking in there with me.

Erik is an opportunist. He was taught this at an early age and throughout his life used the skill to do his bidding. It was his father that encouraged the skill, nurtured, perfected, and Erik used it throughout his life—dream sharing and elsewhere. He could call it somewhat manipulative and selfish as well, but the world wasn’t a fair place, so he chose to raise his chances any way possible.

  
Dahl was still on his lap—sleeping— but clinging to his hoodie tightly with small balled-up fists. He turns to his son who is leaning against him, injured wrist cradled in his lap and looking miserable. Taj presses to Erik’s side, and the man rubs his shoulder affectionately. He feels a shudder from the small body and frowns. The Forger wants to hold him, but Dahl’s grip isn’t budging.

 

“Yo T,” he calls to the point-man in the front seat.

 

T’Challa cranes his head to look in the back. Cell Phone is in his hand, eyes calculating. Erik tilts his head to Taj, “Come ‘ere.”

 

Erik thinks this usually wouldn’t work, but one look at his son has T’Challa unbuckling his seatbelt and opening the van passenger door. They are stuck in back-to-back traffic as they head to the border of Spain.

 

“Linda, get in the front,” commands Erik without looking at her as the van side-door is pulled open. The woman is sitting in the far back, quiet and meek. But she startles when she’s directly addressed. Erik sees her scramble out the van to swap with T’Challa.

  
The other man reaches out his hand. “Come, baby,” he speaks looking at the little boy.

 

Taj is immediately up and sliding to get to his other father. T’Challa maneuvers into the back seat and Taj crawls on his lap, head to his Baba’s chest and gives a soft sigh before closing his eyes. It makes Erik’s heartbreak, but he chooses to clench his jaw and slide the door closed instead. He turns his body to the side and leans against the other window, so he has a clear view of T’Challa and his son. The point-man is murmuring to Taj and kisses him on the head as he rocks him. Erik can see the boy is already even breathed and sleeping. It calms him.

 

T’Challa takes his word and doesn’t ask for an explanation again after their escape from the Paris apartment. The one thing Erik admires about his ex is the ever-present steadfast patience. If you promise him answers, he will wait.

 

As always T’Challa looks put together. Even with the absence of a sharp-pressed suit, he gives the look of something pristine and expensive. It’s what gravitated Erik to T’Challa in the beginning.

 

Erik, who never had something so shiny and new like T’Challa. Erik, who at a young age was deemed a kleptomaniac by his father with a chuckle. Now, studying his ex, the itch to take and claim raises in his chest without preamble.

 

_Two years and 16 hours after London_

 

The fear is back. It emerges in Erik’s conscious before he opens his eyes to a cold dark room with ambient city noise in the background.

 

A toned body is laying next to him with even breath, and the fear settles just below the surface. Erik turns to his newest conquest, interest, treasure, T’Challa. It’s not normal for him to go out of his way for sex. But something about this man he can’t shake.

 

To be clear, T’Challa is a rich, arrogant prick that clearly comes from a high social station. Guys like that, Erik likes to tear apart—usually—T’Challa appears to be a particular case. Because even though he can be an asshole, the Point can equally be considerate and protective.

 

Erik wants to keep him, which is also why he can’t leave the point-man alone very long. He keeps tabs on the other, and if he has an itch, he goes like a moth to the flame for it to be scratched.

 

Erik was on his way to Vancouver and happened to check-in with a contact good at knowing local news in dream-share. According to the connection, T’Challa was rumored to be heading to Amsterdam on a potential holiday and Erik couldn’t pass up the temptation.

 

Hence his current location.

 

The forger stretches, popping his spine and loosening exhorted muscles before relaxing. He turns back to the point-man and leans down to give T’Challa’s pouty lips a kiss.

 

Brown eyes blink open as Erik strokes a chiseled jawline. There’s a second kiss, third, fourth. Erik can’t deny his weakness for liking the rotten-to-the-core sweet moments between them. It gives him a thrill and has his mind thinking in circles.

 

Domestic. What if. A craving. The act of taking.

 

Take take take...and keeping.

 

T’Challa glances over Erik’s shoulder as the kisses break. His brow furrows. “It’s still late.”

 

Erik turns to read '1 o'clock am' on the hotel clock. He’s stayed with the point-man for almost 24 hours since barging into his Amsterdam retreat demanding attention. The Forger doesn’t have a destination, but he does plan to stay as long as he’s able to negotiate.

 

“You mean you don’t want this ‘magic’ dick?” asks Erik tilting his pelvis against the point-man.

 

He laughs at the look of disgust on T’Challa’s face.

 

“I wouldn’t call it magic.”

 

“That’s not you were screamin’ a few hours ago. You were begging for it, nice and deep-“

 

”Must you be so rude?” snaps back T’Challa getting another laugh out of Erik.

 

Erik cradles the others face and kisses his lips again. ”Don't be mad kitty. Want me to suck you off to make it better?”

 

T’Challa looks at him suspiciously. Erik grounds his pelvis again causing them both to close their eyes at the molten hot sensation.

 

”After, I'll fuck that ass raw, ” he grits out continuing to grind. ”I’ll make it good.”

 

The Forger opens his eyes to the T’Challa’s half-lidded gaze. Fear. Fear creeps in as Erik continues the rhythm. Fear that this feeling growing in his chest will blossom into something he can't control.

 

Erik keeps going--like a moth to a flame.

 

_Present_

 

Erik smiles still gazing at T’Challa. Even though the circumstance is not ideal, he can't help the warmth in his chest at being near his ex again.

 

The group re-routes on the A63 and drive all the way to Spain’s border. Identification proves to be easy, all ID’s fake and neutral, even the twins. Trust T’Challa to be prepared.

 

Once they pass the border into Spain, T’Challa immediately instructs them to head to Zaragoza. Erik doesn’t ask any questions about the request, but the others look at him curiously. It doesn’t take them too long to get there—45 minutes cross country with speckles of small villages on the way.

 

They hit a hill and start to descend, and Erik sees the city. It’s smaller than Madrid but equally magnificent. In the center of the metropolis is a towering building that looks over the city.

 

“What’s that?” He asks T’Challa nodding to the massive structure.

 

Glancing up from his phone, T’Challa looks at the monument. “Basilica of Our Lady of the Pillar,” he says before turning back to the small screen.

 

At this point, Erik can’t help but feel put out that T'Challa's phone is receiving so much of his ex-husband's attention. “What are you doing? You' been on that thing the entire ride.”

 

“My home was shot with bullets. I need to cover my tracks as much as I’m able…” answers T'Challa glancing to the twins. “ I hired Stan to help.”

 

“Stan Baerdt?”

 

“Stan Baerdt van Sminia,” he corrects.

 

Erik knows very little about him. The Forger first heard about Stan from a guy who knew a guy who worked with the man once. Rumors tell of the other living among the shadows—creepy mutha fucker who shows up at random moments in dream-share.

 

When Stan does make a rare appearance, he’s usually hired by a teammate with good connections. To Erik, he’s like a high-class financial advisor—referrals only.

 

There’s an old term for someone like him, Erik’s not sure if it’s appropriate or not, but it’s rarely used in dream-share nowadays... Stan's position is as notorious as M’Baku’s ‘cleaner’ title—but with less public acceptance. A ‘Duster’ or the politically correct term ‘Groundskeeper.’ Someone that helps you disappear—that’s meticulous with detail and is serious about their work.

 

But known to be extremely malicious.

 

With a common trait of being a sociopath. It makes Erik uneasy that T’Challa would know someone of that nature. Dusters are not known to play favorites and are not seen to be loyal—mercenaries of the business.

 

That being said, Erik knows T’Challa wouldn’t mess with just anybody. The Point-man is excellent on his research and is an expert on who is safe enough within the business, but the news still has Erik on edge.

 

“Ain’t that a little risky?” Asks Erik frowning at the Point. “Having someone like that around your stuff. What if he finds something on you?”

 

_‘Like the kids,’_ think's Erik.

 

Out of everything in T’Challa’s life the cubs are the best bargaining tool for his enemies—their enemies.

 

“I know what I’m doing,” answers T’Challa. Erik feels like he’s being dismissed—it pisses him off.

 

“You puttin’ my kids in danger warrants me to be more fuckin’ concerned.”

 

The Forger has T’Challa’s full attention at his tone. He looks between shocked and highly offended and opens his mouth to retaliate when W’Kabi speaks.

 

“Is there a destination I should be heading too?” He asks in the driver's seat defusing the situation.

 

They are on the edge of the city about to cross an ancient stone bridge into a field of tall buildings. The first time in hours, T’Challa puts down his phone and focuses on the road. Erik’s temper goes up a notch.

 

“Keep heading down ave Puente de Santiago…” answers T’Challa. “We are heading to Mercado market.”

 

“What’s there?” Pipes up Linda. She looks equally surprised as everyone else to be addressing T’Challa.

 

“Resources,” he says.

 

\------

 

Resources-- meaning everything needed for their unexpected holiday. Taj is still sleeping on T’Challa’s lap, and the Point takes the opportunity to check his wound. The van is equipped with a first-aid kit and T’Challa has a spare in the bag he snagged from the apartment. He finds gauzes ointments and anti-bacterial gel.

 

“How is he?” Asks Erik watching him work.

 

Carefully the tape and bandages are removed. The wound is inspected thoroughly and looks to be healing normally. Thankfully no infection.

 

“It’s healing as it should.”

 

T’Challa hears a sigh of relief from his ex-husband. He glances at Erik, whose eyes are still glued to their injured son. There’s a softness seen amidst the cocky obnoxiousness, and T’Challa’s heart skips a beat...he snaps out of his assessment and mentally shakes his head. Moving quickly, T'Challa cleans and dresses the wound again without waking the little boy. Erik watches without disturbance as he adjusts Dahl on his lap.

 

It makes T’Challa nervous.

 

This is the first time seeing Erik in over a year. The last time T’Challa saw the forger, was in Paris, on a random market day. Erik was at a fruit stall chatting with an older gentleman holding a bag of promenades. T’Challa had stopped short to stare until the interaction was finished. At the time, he hadn't got a good look of Erik, but now he was trying hard not to stare plainly.

 

Hence the phone. The phone was T'Challa's saving grace from making a fool of himself.

 

The Point-man made sure to divert his gaze to the small screen, engaging in ‘busy work’—alongside trying to set his affairs straight. But now he had a first-row seat to the rare spectacle that was Erik Killmonger.

 

Bast, help me.

 

Already from sneak glances, T’Challa could tell Erik was physically bigger. The bulge of the Forger's chest strained against his white shirt. Erik now had facial hair well groomed that enhanced his strong jawline.

 

...stop.

 

Pulling his eyes reluctantly away from Erik’s physique, T’Challa glances up to lock eyes with the deep brown of the Forger himself. The Point freezes—automatically embarrassed at being caught looking, and hopes his face doesn’t look as hot as it feels.

 

Erik can be cruel when he wants and makes a habit of voicing embarrassing situations. T’Challa waits for a rebuttal but is met with surprising silence. Instead, they just keep eye contact.

 

T’Challa involuntarily shivers—it’s slight and easy to hide, but Erik’s eyebrow lifts up in interest. Warmth spreads over T’Challa’s body like a crushing wave, and from Erik, he can see a cocky lift to the corner of his lips. Just a slight.

 

The van gives a jump from a pothole, and the spell is broken. T’Challa blinks and gazes around before he settles on the road, while Erik blinks but still looks at him. He ends with a bite to the lip and secret smile.

 

T’Challa makes a note to ignore him the rest of the ride.

 

Mercado Market is well known around the world and the groups' destination. When they reach the city, Dahl is fully awake and bright-eyed looking out the window. She Ooo’s and Aah's pointing and giving random commentary to a half-awake Taj. The injured boy is settled on his Baba’s lap cradled close, with evident interest.

 

They park a few blocks away, and W’Kabi immediately volunteers himself and Linda in charge of restocking perversions. Which leaves T’Challa, Erik and the kids to other business. It’s like a weird parallel world where they are on a family outing instead of hunting down one of T’Challa’s many resources.

 

The Point can tell having both parents together has an immediate effect on the kids. Taj and Dahl walk perfectly between them--excited because of the new location and the fact both of their parents a present at the same time. T’Challa tries not to linger on how natural it feels to be walking together --like a family.

 

The merchant he's after is further within the building and is known for her homemade loaves of bread and pastries. The stall is busy as always, but T’Challa doesn’t have to do much to get what he’s after. Once he is seen by the woman, she drops down --still talking to the customer and lifts a burgundy leather bag across a basket of Galician loaves.

 

“Agregué golosinas extra para sus hijos y esposo.”

 

T’Challa grabs the bag. “Muy apreciado.”

 

The Point turns to leave, and the rest of the pack follows. They start heading towards the entrance of the market, before Dahlia tugs on T’Challa’s pants.

 

“Baba, are we leaving? I don’t want to go yet? I’m hungry, let's eat. Taj wants to eat too--don’t you Taj?”

 

Taj doesn’t say anything but also doesn’t protest his twin’s accusation. He looks at T’Challa and Erik with a hopeful smile. T’Challa turns to Erik for help, but finds a fond smile on his face--he’s alone in his reasoning apparently.

 

“We have no time,” he starts.

 

The Forger licks his lips. “Come on, it won’t take that long. Plus, you know they haven’t been here before.”

 

T’Challa rolls his eyes and whispers harshly. “We are on the run.”

 

Erik leans in. “It’ll be fine, kitten. I’ll make sure you’ safe. Let’s treat the kids a little.”

 

The Point doesn’t like his tone, only because it’s worked in Erik’s favor in the past, but T'Challa lets out a frustrated sigh before giving a curt nod and hearing praises from both kids.  
They don’t stay long but end up buying a few sandwiches and gelato before heading back outside to the bustling city. Dahl and Taj are having the time of their life’s it seems. Both wide-eyed and bushy-tailed at the new sounds and smells. They are so excited that they miss the tension in both T’Challa and Erik once they step out in the open.

 

They all startle when a dark blue Peugeot 5008 stops in front of them. The driver’s window rolls down to reveal W’Kabi.  
  


“Do I want to know who you stole this off of, homie?” asks Erik as the side door expertly opens by itself.

 

The chemist smiles. “The less you know, the better off you will be.”

 

  
\------

 

It takes another eight hours to get to their next destination--this time Erik’s call. The group heads south along the coastline and arrives a little before dusk in a city called Espetona. There is growing anxiety in the Forger as they continue through the hills of the sleeping town.

 

They need to regroup, they need sanctuary. But this is a dangerous last case scenario, and Erik knows it.

 

“Stop,” speaks Erik firmly as they head down a long dirt road amongst thick tropical trees. W’Kabi does as he’s told knowing full well it's useless to ask questions. The cubs are sleeping in the back of the van, and the only questioning looks are from T’Challa and Linda.

 

Erik unbuckles his seatbelt. “Come with me,” he says to T’Challa before opening the door and stepping out.

 

The point follows, still with a question on his face. They both walk a few feet from the van.

 

“What is it?” asked T’Challa breaking the silence. “I assume something is up there you want us to stay clear from…”

 

Erik exhales a deep breath. “A few feet up is a big resource that can help us…” he starts.

 

“But…”

 

“But, I can’t allow you to go in there yet,” the man finishes licking his lips.

 

T’Challa frowns. “Knows not the time for bravado.”

 

Erik laughs. “Baby, baby, you always think the worse of me, huh?”

 

“I think you’re foolish.”

 

“And I think you’re a brat, what’s new?”

 

This deepens the frown on T'Challa’s face but doesn’t deter Erik from stepping closer. He glances to the van and sees W'Kabi on his phone and Linda staring with fixed fascination.

 

“You need to trust me on this, kitten.”

 

Erik can already see a protest about to emerge. He silences it by bridging the gap between them-- grabs T’Challa’s neck and firmly pushes their lips together. T’Challa gives a startles sound, before instincts kick in and he goes for a swing. But Erik knows his ex so well and traps his balled fists. Now that T'Challa's fists are crushed between both their chests, Erik's hands go back to the Point’s face.

 

Erik can’t help but devour T’Challa. It’s like a fresh taste of water in several years of drought. The Forger’s thumbs run over high cheekbones, tongue pushing into a warm silken mouth. Erik’s been thirsty for T’Challa a long time. Longer then he could ever admit.

 

And yes, he’s foolish.

 

But not anymore.

 

Regretfully Erik breaks the kiss with them both gasping for air. T’Challa is trying to catch his breath-- staring off to the side, his fists are lax between them. Erik looks at the pretty man in front of him and smiles softly.

 

“If I’m not back in 15 minutes, get the hell out of dodge," he comments.

 

T’Challa stiffens and turns to look at Erik as he’s released from their embrace. He opens his mouth to speak, but Erik shushes him with a boyish grin and index finger to full lips. The Forger starts walking backward on the dirt road, then turns and walks until he’s out of sight.

 

And leaves T'Challa a wreck--like always. But also brings more clarity to what is down the road. T'Challa knows what type of warning this is...

 

The Point turns back to the van, W'Kabi has his full attention, and Linda is staring hard out the side window. He nods to W'Kabi, who returns the gesture and slowly walks where Erik disappeared, the van slowly drives behind. As he turns into the curve of the road, T’Challa sees a large villa peaking from the trees. There’s a tall brick gate serving as the entrance and blocking any passerby. He holds a hand out behind him, and the van stops.

 

T’Challa has a second to see Erik standing at the gates massive doors. The Forgers' hands are up in surrender, and there are two men pointing machine guns at his chest.

 

Before T’Challa can react, his ex-husband is pushed roughly by the shaft of one gun and through the gate forcefully. It takes every ounce of will power for T'Challa not to rush in and burn the place down. The large door closes.

 

He knows Erik.

 

T’Challa knows what the Forger is capable of in sticky situations. So his instincts simmer below the surface, the Point reaches for his kimoyo beads...

 

And sets the countdown to 15 minutes.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading. Don't be afraid to comment! They help so much with motivating me to write. You guys are awesome!
> 
> I'm on tumblr here  
> [tumblr here](https://something---sumthing.tumblr.com)


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